Clinical
by Atman
Summary: The world's finest surgeon's services are needed by an elite SeeD, who must protect her identity, find out what is wrong with her, and correct it. But her intentions aren't only for self-preservation, for she isn't the only one hiding something.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: They say to write what you know and this is what happens when I finally listen. I hope you enjoy.

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Chapter 1: The Good Doctor

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"Where's Dr. Von Oyen?"

"Dictating in the staff room, where else?"

"'Where else?'" he scoffed. "The man dictates wherever he goes. I mean, things went a little differently the last war and he would be dictating to the country and not just this clinic after filling an even bigger power void than the one in this hospital." Caraway stepped into power after the war before Von Oyen could. This was likely a mixed blessing.

The medical assistant waited patiently for the house officers to conclude their nigh-subversive conversation. She always felt too small to interrupt even the least pertinent of a physician's discourse, and often, she learned something because of it. It wasn't always related to medicine.

After a few minutes of having her existence remain unacknowledged, she gave up and walked to the staff room. There, six physicians and their clinical assistants of various subspecialties sat reviewing patient charts on computers and discussing their cases with the nurses, residents, and medical students whom they were charged to educate. Today's clinic was for endocrine oncology and thoracic patients, with a handful of acute care surgical follow-ups.

She placed the folder in the rack next to the surgeon-in-chief's workstation, behind one other. The doctor looked up briefly and nodded, but frowned when he noted the folder's red color. Red meant the patient had no insurance guarantor and that he would be lucky to get any compensation for his work on that patient.

The University of Deling Heath System didn't have the luxury of many private practices, which could turn away all but the best insured, best paying, easiest to diagnose and treat patients. UDHS was the provider of last resort and hence legally obligated to take any person who should seek their care. This fact made the surgeon-chief angry, but then, quite a lot of things made him angry.

"…Review of 10 of 14 systems unremarkable except as noted above, period." He spoke into the receiver, taking the time to narrate the punctuation, so that the translational servicemen would be less likely to make formatting errors when they transcribed his account. "Family history is non-contributory, period. Next paragraph. Social history: Patient smokes one pack per day times 23 years, period. Drinks alcohol only occasionally, and denies illicit drug use. Next paragraph…"

The MA didn't stick around even long enough to admire the physician's handsome profile, for he had a tendency to be perspicacious about one's intensions, and that in the past resulted in far smaller merit salary increases. She decided it wasn't worth it. Besides, she saw the man almost every day, and had memorized his appearance. It never changed.

He was a young man. Younger than any chief surgeon should ever appear to be, but evidently, not so young as to not deserve to be. Tall, with dark hair that he combed always to his right. Though you'd possibly never know it, for he always wore a surgical cap that covered most of his forehead and hair. He was bearded thickly, but with a close cut, and growing silver under the chin and temples. He had the large, but fairly narrow hands that befit a surgeon, with what seemed to be too many knuckles placed too far apart. Strong-jawed, with brown eyes that sat behind a pair of rimless glasses and inside a scowl that never ended, he appeared to be constantly annoyed with his surroundings.

When not in long white coat monogrammed with his name, "A. S. Von Oyen, MD," he dressed in oxfords, slacks, and ties that never at outrance with primary or secondary colors, and seldom had patterns beyond pinstripes. His right leg shook endlessly whenever he sat to complete a task that required more than one track of thought. This pissed off a great number of people, since the desks in the clinic were at such a low height that his knee often knocked against them at about 10hz. Nobody said anything though.

His lab coat flapped behind him in the melodramatic style of a cinema villain as he stalked down the hallway to room 53 where his next patient sat waiting. Knocking only momentarily and while in the process of opening the door, he entered, then looked down at the folder which read _Forre, Edward 32_ and then at the elderly woman sitting in the room alone with him.

"Excuse me. I must have the wrong room," he apologized before returning to the hallway and nearly bowling over the residents who were just now catching up to him. The doctor turned down another hall papered with innocuous wall coverings and fake ash paneling and insinuated himself into the former closet which held the clinic's three patient intake personnel.

"Where the hell is Forre? Do you have to go moving the patients around after you've put them in a room?" he spouted, though quietly.

"I did mark room 48 on the billing sheet." One of the staff stepped in and pointed at the note with a pen. From a safe distance. "Right there..."

"Well, why does it say something different on the board?"

"I'm sorry, Doctor Von Oyen, you didn't get the e-mail that patient tracking would be unreliable today? They're updating the software."

He rolled his eyes. "I might allegedly be the man in charge here, but I'm always the last to know when something changes." Then he walked out without another word.

Once he was out of earshot, another of the staff remarked, "That's probably because everyone is afraid to give you bad news."

The residents parted to either side of the hall as he walked quickly past, turning to another branch and toward exam room 48. He performed the same ritual before entering as he did for the incorrect room. Inside there was a middle-aged man of considerable mass sitting on the table. The physician was introducing himself when his protégés entered.

"Good morning Mr. Forre. I'm Doctor Von Oyen and these two are my residents today, Vera and Vernon. They're here with me now to hopefully learn what they did wrong and missed when they were with you earlier." He smiled and the overweight man laughed, if a bit nervously. "I understand you're concerned about your thyroid. When did your symptoms begin?"

"Guess it's been about three months now. Felt a bump on the right side of my neck."

"All right. Any fatigue, sweats, rapid heartbeat?"

"All those. And I put on quite a lot of weight."

Doctor Von Oyen wrote some notes on the patient folder, and then removed the sheet. "I see. I'm going to examine you now, Mr Forre, to see if I find any other worrisome symptoms and to try to palpate the mass you felt in your neck."

Mr Forre looked lost.

"I thought you'd just cut it out..."

The physician's eyes narrowed. "Palpate means feel, Mr Forre, now please remove your shoes and socks."

"The lump was on my neck, doc."

"_Doctor Von Oyen_," he growled. "Yes, I'll be checking your neck as well, but evidence of swelling in your extremities can cue me into what could be going on." Impatience was thick in his voice by this time. Mr Forre reluctantly removed his footwear.

He checked his patient's medical record, which had sparse content. "I notice that we don't have any ultrasound imaging or uptake scans in our system. Have you had an ultrasound?"

"Ultrasound? I ain't pregnant."

Von Oyen walked to the pedal-controlled sink and washed his hands. "Ultrasound imaging is used to determine the size, location, and characteristics of abnormalities of the thyroid and parathyroid glands. Without imaging I can't determine what is taking place in your neck, if anything. Especially with no obvious goiter."

Now wearing latex gloves, the surgeon pressed his fingertips into his patient's neck, pushing more deeply as they moved closer toward the larynx. He pulled back and observed as Mr Forre swallowed on request, then wrote additional notes after checking pulse, respiration, and bowel sounds. He washed his hands again.

"Well, Mr Forre... I was unable to feel anything abnormal under the unnaturally thick layer of blubber about your neck. If you'd be so kind as to have an ultrasound that shows a nodule with a diameter of at least one centimeter, I'd be happy to discuss surgery with you. The symptoms you described to me were characteristic of both hyper and hypothyroidism, which leads me to believe that you're a tachycardic, sweating, hard breathing slob, _because _you're fat, and that's not because of your thyroid, either. Everyone wants to blame the thyroid...

"So you can get me those images or you can get your ass off the couch: your health and my time would be better served in either event."

The man huffed in anger and exertion as he put his shoes back on and reached for his coat. Doctor Von Oyen handed him back his folder which he snatched away angrily.

"I know a good bariatric surgeon just down the hall if you'd like to become an even bigger blimp and take the easy way out. Insurance waives all other requirements if your BMi is over 50."

The door flew open and slammed shut.

Von Oyen walked out moments later, having just logged out of the terminal, while his residents lingered, briefly contemplating apologizing to the patient before deciding that their attending physician would be much harder to deal with. Cara leaned toward the more experienced Vernon. "He was in rare form today, eh?"

Vernon turned toward her, look of abject incredulity written on his face. "'Rare' form?" His face softened as he remembered that she'd just transferred from cardiac surgery only a week or so ago. "That's right. You haven't been in clinic with the good doctor before. Well, that is pretty much how he always is."

Cara frowned and wondered how the surgeon didn't get her name right when introducing her. Didn't he see the name tag?

"Then why do people keep coming to see him?"

"There's not much choice in the matter. There are only a handful of surgeons that can do what he does and he's the best in the country, maybe the world." He shrugged and started walking. "He just expects processes to work efficiently, patients not to be stupid, and for everyone around him to keep up," Vernon continued, with pointed emphasis.

"So, he expects way too much..."

And why not? People came from hundreds or thousands of miles expecting miracles of him and their expectations were almost always met. She watched as Vernon quickened his pace down the hall and she sighed.

Already she missed cardiac, where the surgeons acted as old gods, plotting and scheming against each other. They were easy to win over that way, to manipulate. It was clear already, that in the section of general surgery, polytheism was dead: there was one god whom it appeared all feared and resented. Few gods are more loathed than those who only provide for those who need, for few know if they need or want, and what.

The tacky watercolor reprints passed by on her left and right as she slowly made her way to the staff room. Inside, several physicians sat at their terminals and nurses reviewed messages from patient calls. Doctor Von Oyen was nearly done with his dictation and he pushed a billing sheet Cara to mark for a procedure done earlier. She took it to give to Vernon, since she knew nothing about it.

"...Patient is a well-developed, obese male who is in no apparent distress and appears his stated age, period. On focused examination, no lymphedema or swelling of the extremities and thyroid was difficult to appreciate bilaterally due to body habitus, period. I was unable to palpate any abnormal nodule, period. I suspect the nodule patient reported feeling was a piece of sausage lodged in his throat... Redact last sentence..."

Cara weaved her way around the bodies to her partners. Vernon was talking to the other general surgery resident on rotation that day, Nash.

"I'm telling you, she's easily the hottest girl I've ever seen," Nash was gesticulating over a red patient folder.

"Yeah, well, you don't get out much," the other man returned, smirking. Nash frowned and Cara was disgusted, but remained to see if something worthwhile might turn up during the conversation. She shoved the billing sheet in front of Vernon who hashed it up wordlessly.

"You'll see man. Chuck was so intimidated he didn't even get her vitals. Whoever gets her number doesn't have rounds for a month, deal?"

"The only number you'll get is her BP, if you're lucky." To Cara's growing appreciation, Vernon didn't take the outstretched hand.

"Shouldn't you be discussing the next patient?" she asked, impatiently.

They both turned to her. "We are."

She drummed her fingers against her thigh and blew out her hair. She _really _missed cardiac surgery. None of their patients were good-looking... Angry, she snatched the red folder from Nash just as Von Oyen walked over to them.

"All right," he clapped his hands together and made as if to dust then off, smiling lopsidedly. "New girl. Tara, right? Tell us about our homeless patient."

"It's Cara," she said and he waved his hand as if to say 'close enough.' Cara went on peevishly after seeing his impatience grow even in a span of a few seconds. "And how do you know she's homeless?"

"Red folder. Means no insurance guarantor and might as well be homeless to me. This'll be a charity case."

Nash spoke up. "Well, she didn't look homeless. Could be self pay."

"Now, now, Nash. It's not kind to get your attending's hopes all up. Out with it then. What's the rich gal's story."

Cara started to read from the folder before Vernon interrupted her. "Well, we're not sure about the story, but according to Nash, you should appreciate the pictures."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Listen, children; if you think I have clinic just to run some sort of fetishist pornography outfit, I have news for you. Normal vitals?"

"MA didn't get them," Cara answered.

"What? And I suppose," he turned to Nash, "Timmy didn't think to get them when he saw that they weren't taken?"

Shaking heads all round. Von Oyen sighed. He took the folder from the unresisting hands of his youngest resident.

"Seems I have to do everything around here... 'Amber Hillman, 29 F. Imaging on incidental X-ray showed high attenuation area 17 x 21 mm on adrenal gland. Suspected adrenocortical carcinoma.'" He read some more and pulled up the record of the radiology screens, rapidly flipping through different levels of brightness and pointed to the referenced abnormality for the others to see.

"Pretty rare to pick up an adrenal tumor on incidental x-ray, isn't it?"

The attending shook his head. "Not as rare as you might think, and generally far less useless than an incidental from ultrasound." He gave the folder back. "Check the questionnaire, will you? I need to see if we have any labs."

The pathology tab was empty.

"Damn... I guess we get to start from scratch."

"Questionnaire isn't very helpful. No family history. Very little medical history, period," Cara puzzled.

"Well, we will see what we can get out of her," Von Oyen said, and turned to the two male residents. "Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum here can sit this one out, since they had nothing to contribute to our discussion."

"Hey! You're just trying to keep the competition away, aren't you?" Nash rebutted.

The surgeon stood, rolling his shoulders and his eyes. "I think your definition of 'competition' is pretty loose. Certainly looser than any decent woman would be around you. Come on, Mara."

Cara stood and walked out with him, leaving a brooding pair of seventh year residents to explore their jealousy elsewhere. "It's Cara."

He slowed down enough to nudge her with an elbow. "I know. I'm just messing with you. Relax a little."

"It's pretty hard to relax around a world renowned miracle worker."

"Ahh... I'm not so different than anybody else. Exactly the same, in fact." He paused. "Only much, much better." He winked at her.

Cara blushed, taking note of the jutting cheekbones under the surgeon's beard and above an almost gaunt face. The hairs coming in were lighter, but the grey did nothing to mitigate his appeal.

He knocked and opened the door.

A startled young woman looked up at the opened door from her chair where she continued to fill out form after form about demographics, medications, and emergency contacts. She had her long, dirty-blonde hair pinned up in a peculiar style, reminiscent of the shape of a seahorse, and wore clothing that was mostly practical and covered most of her skin: a turtleneck for her top, pants under her skirt, and long gloves on her arms, though they and the almost bombastic brown color scheme only attempted to allay attention. So too did her unmarked flawless face. Calm, but sharp and dangerously angry, as if she hated the fact there was nothing to do to change its allure. She had matching piercing green eyes hidden behind glasses. In short, she was beautiful, and was doing her best to cover up the fact.

And she lashed out. Because her best was not enough. By a long shot.

"An attending so soon? I wasn't expecting you for at least another hour," she quipped.

Von Oyen regarded her coolly and almost warily extended his hand. She shook it with surprising force and stared a long while before ratcheting up the impatience written on her face. Eventually he introduced himself.

"Good morning Miss Hillman. I'm Doctor Von Oyen." He motioned to Cara who had partially hidden herself behind him. She stepped forward and shook the patient's hand. "This is Cara. She's here for eductive reasons."

"It's _Missus_ Hillman. And I told the last one that I don't want any residents."

The surgeon looked down at the chart, frowning. "I apologize. Our information says you're single. And Mr. Nash is not representative of Cara here. She's with me and is a consummate professional. She'll be on her best behavior." He smiled.

Mrs. Hillman frowned. She fingered the ring on her left hand, and then nodded.

"I do hope that ogling me won't continue to be a part in this consultation."

He smirked. "Only insofar as it is clinically necessary, _Missus _Hillman."

She rolled her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Vital Signs**

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Doctor Von Oyen walked to the sink and washed his hands, then dried them with paper towels. He struggled, as usual, to cram his fingers into the latex gloves. Stopping, he looked at his patient's intake sheet again and deflated.

With great acrimony, he took a pen. "Forgot we needed to start at the beginning, thanks to my less-than-professional house officers and useless medical assistant... Do you have any allergies? To latex in particular?"

"Are you always so overflowing with your compliments?" Mrs. Hillman quipped. She had her arms folded and wore a guarded and challenging look.

He returned her gaze with cool one of his own. She glared back.

"Only around charming young women. Do you always answer questions with questions?"

"More often than not. And flattery will get you nowhere."

The pen in his left hand tapped repeatedly against the chart in his right. "And assumptions will get neither of us anywhere." He waved his hand to Cara, who was readying a blood pressure cuff. "I can't imagine what evidence led you to believe I was talking about you..." Her scowl deepened, just enough to line her face. Cara blushed. "Now: do you have any allergies?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

He sat on a rolling stool to face her at eye level. Smiling a condescending smile, he asked, "There. Was that so hard?" He wrote on the sheet. "Are you taking any medications, over-the-counter drugs or herbal supplements?"

"Just a multivitamin and the occasional aspirin."

The doctor nodded. "Do you smoke?" Headshake. "Drink alcohol?"

"A glass of wine here and there. It doesn't sit well with my profession."

He glanced up. "Which is?"

Mrs. Hillman resumed her wary countenance which she had let slip. "Is it relevant to this line of questioning?"

The doctor leaned back in the stool and shrugged. "Could be. Anytime cancer is in question environmental exposure to radiation and magic is always explored."

"I'm a teacher." She turned away and looked back at him.

"Ah, well... We have something in common then. What do you teach?"

"What's with the third degree, doctor?"

"Have you even been to a clinic in the last 20 years? We're just getting started."

"Your students... Residents... Already asked me these questions."

"…And you didn't answer them... So I'm asking them again." His response was slow and measured, as if he was talking to a non-native speaker, or a dense child. An open expectance painted his face.

There was venom in her eyes, green and cold. "I take it you won't take no for an answer?"

He blew out a breath. "On the contrary Mrs. Hillman, I'm perfectly happy to have your social and medical history remain a mystery, so long as you prefer your condition remain unknown and untreated."

"I can always see a different doctor."

Von Oyen shrugged. "The outcome will be the same. Any surgeon capable of assessing and treating you wouldn't touch you with a pole without taking your extensive history, and I'm the only one who'll take charity cases." He glanced at his watch. There were no clocks in the exam rooms. Patients were less inclined to leave when they don't know how much time they're wasting waiting for a doctor. "Would you mind making your decision quickly? I do have other patients to see."

She slumped. "Fine. I live in Balamb. I've been married for almost two years. No children and haven't been pregnant. Age of menarche, 15. I always..." When she saw his smirk, she stopped, agog and suspicious. "W-what?"

"You aren't new to this after all, are you? You know exactly what kinds of things I need to know. Good. Nothing's worse than an ignorant consumer. Even in healthcare." He stood and approached her, making a contemplative face. "Especially in healthcare... I'm going to examine you and Cara is going to take your blood pressure and temperature."

Warily, the resident approached. "Could you please roll down your glove, Missus Hillman?" The patient complied after a momentary hesitation and eyed both clinicians warily.

The resident wrapped the cuff around Mrs. Hillman's arm and secured it with Velcro straps. Then she popped a sheath on the thermometer and stuck it in her patient's mouth until it beeped. She recorded the temperature while inflating the cuff. "163 over 102. Pulse and temp high too."

While she shot the thermometer sheath into the bin, the doctor tore off the BP cuff and hung in on the wall. He closely examined Mrs. Hillman's eyes, the underside of her jaw on both sides of her neck, and the areas forward and beneath her armpits. She squirmed uncomfortably throughout the whole proceeding, especially after he'd asked her to unstrap her bra to examine her axilla. "Are these vitals consistent with your recent history?"

"Define 'recent.'"

"The last few times you've seen a doctor. Teachers are required to visit one at least bi-annually, even in Balamb."

"I can't remember."

"I see." His eyes contorted to slits, not unlike horizontal turrets, through which one might shoot flaming arrows at uncooperative, redirecting people who plead for the help of kings and demand that they make house calls, be mind-readers, and not collect taxes… "You'd have remembered the rebuke any half-decent General Practitioner gave you if you came up with those numbers unless you walked into their office just after finishing a marathon."

It appeared well-practiced, her innocent look. Also malignant and out-of-place. "Maybe it's just 'white-coat' syndrome."

Cursing, for he had cut a hole in one glove as he rubbed the sharp whiskers on his chin, Doctor Von Oyen walked to grab another to replace it. "Well, I could concede to that. I had some med students run a study that showed over 80% of my female patients had elevated pulses and heart rate relative to when seeing other physicians."

"Looks like you're bad for our health then, doctor." Mrs. Hillman looked bored.

"Well, nobody's perfect. Helps keep cardiology and internal medicine busy though."

"I'm sure your considerable charm and modesty accounted for the raised blood pressure," she replied, rolling her eyes. She fingered her handbag in a way that made one think she was about to pull out a cell phone. Or maybe a gun.

Dr. Von Oyen stiffened, his face petrifying. "Please remove your shoes, Mrs. Hillman," he said as he stood up and calibrated the scale. She stepped on it with only a moment's hesitation, as decorum demanded. "Have you been losing weight Mrs. Hillman? You're on the low end of normal. And by normal, I mean rail-thin. Any lower I'd be very concerned."

"Since when is being fit and trim a bad thing?" Her face was alight with a disdainful mischief, a purposeful mocking.

Doctor Von Oyen, who felt strongly that patient questions should wait until after he was done asking his, glared openly. "Since the time passed that it made you fit more easily into a grave. I do have a reason for asking the questions I do."

"Mind sharing?"

"Not at all. You first." He folded his arms. She stood silently and checked her phone.

The clinician took the few steps required to traverse the small exam room slowly. When he reached the door, he opened it quickly and let it glide open fully, until it bounced off the sharps container on the wall. With great ostentation and little interest, he motioned to the opening. His patient had returned to her seat and sat looking at him in confusion.

Cara took the opportunity to try to defuse the situation. "Doctor Von Oyen isn't criticizing you, Mrs. Hillman. He just needs you to actively cooperate in order to best diagnose and treat you." She smiled soothingly, directing both to her patient and boss. "I know he can be abrasive and overbearing, but he means well. Can you answer our questions?"

The woman swallowed. "Yes. I think so." She reached down to put her shoes back on, but the doctor stopped her.

"Hold it." The door slammed shut. "I need to take a look at your feet first," Von Oyen grumbled.

Once he kneeled in front of her and grasped a petite foot, scarcely larger than his hand, she started to speak. "Yes, I've lost about 15 pounds." Her month opened and closed again, but no one noticed.

He turned her other foot over in his hands and inspected the ankle and shin. "Intentionally or not?"

"Unintentionally." He rose and removed his gloves, throwing them in the bin.

"You can put your shoes and socks back on, Mrs. Hillman." He took his seat on the stool and rolled it back toward the computer in the room. Glancing up as he wrote, he started to talk. "Mrs. Hillman, your presentation does not fit neatly into any particular adrenal disorder, though your x-ray, temperature, and blood pressure point to a possibly functional tumor. Right now the old imaging we have shows a moderate size and we must only consider it an incidentaloma. We will have to run a number of tests to rule out other issues and have a CT scan to update the imaging of the mass."

The doctor wrote hastily on a paper pathology requisition Cara handed to him. He signed it, and then filled in fields on an online radiology request. Afterwards, he turned to his patient.

"Any questions for me?"

Mrs. Hillman suddenly appeared in shock. "...You mean, that's it? You're done today?"

He looked up. "Well, yes. You have an incomplete workup. Without more information I can't develop a plan of care for you."

"With the x-ray... I thought you could just consult with me about when and how to remove the mass."

Dr. Von Oyen shook his head. "Mrs. Hillman, the image of your adrenal gland is over a month old and is poorly defined. The fact that you're symptomatic is worrisome in that there is a possibility of metastasis - cancer traveling to other organs - that would make planning a surgery at this stage extremely irresponsible."

He rooted through her folder and extracted her x-ray, which he then held up to the wall mounted fluorescent light table. Pointing to the middle of the image, he said, "Not only is the image old, but it had poorly defined margins. The mass," he circled it with his finger "is on the border for concerning regardless of whether or not is a functional tumor. At 2 centimeters and without history of malignancy, assuming it hasn't grown, and that the image is really showing what it appears to, we would not consider biopsy so we'll do a differential work-up to rule out pheochromocytoma."

Missus Hillman nodded.

"You'll receive what you need for your lab tests once you go to the draw station. I have openings in the OR later this week should your workup prove ultimately worrisome. Do you have a place in town to stay for the next few days?"

She nodded reluctantly.

"I'll badger radiology to get you in tomorrow. You don't have any allergy to shellfish do you? They'll need to use contrast."

"No, doctor."

"Good." He turned and examined the x-ray again, frowning, and then turning to her chart. "It says in your chart that there is concern about swelling of your inguinal lymph nodes." Cara looked at him with a puzzled expression that he suppressed. "I already checked many of the standard lymph nodes which can become enlarged when tumors begin to spread, but I'll need you to get on the exam table and slide down your panties."

Both of the women in the room looked affronted. "Excuse me? I don't recall my physician sharing this concern with me."

Doctor Von Oyen shrugged. "It's common to forget little details like that when being given potentially grave news. She was concerned enough to put it in your referral to me." He patted the exam table. "Come on. Cara will examine you first and I promise I won't do anything untoward."

He gave her his most charming and disarming smile, which she broke in two with the folding of her arms, but she did move to the exam table and unzipped the side of her dress. She stopped.

"You don't need to take to get undressed, just slide them down."

Cara pressed repeatedly into her pubic region after Mrs. Hillman lay down.

"You feel anything?" her attending asked.

She nodded distractedly. "I think so."

"Where?" He moved alongside her, pushing up Mrs. Hillman's blouse and had his resident guide his hand to where she felt a nodule underneath the patient's skin. Missus Hillman lay with an arm behind her head staring at the wall with a ruddy face. "Hm…" Von Oyen pressed his fingers into her sides up to her lower ribs and backed away, tossing his gloves in the waste bin. "You can pull up your trousers, skirt, whatever you're wearing."

Mrs. Hillman scowled with a less-than-pleasant blush. "What is it that you could feel?" she asked venomously. Her doctor was already back to clicking on the computer.

"Oh, probably nothing. It's pretty easy to feel lymph nodes in thin people such as yourself, even when they're not swollen, but if your CT is concerning for spread we'll want to take a closer look at them."

"I see."

He wrote in her folder and turned back to her. "Did you complete your demographics form with a contact number?"

She nodded and then handed the clipboard to him. Her phone started buzzing in her bag.

Scowling at Dr. Von Oyen when she heard him hang up and stuff the cordless phone back into his coat, she threw her own phone back in her bag. He shrugged with a devilish grin. "Just checking." He handed her back the red folder, now with notes about her follow-up plans. "Please take this to the front desk and they'll check you out."

"I rather think I've been checked out enough."

Doctor Von Oyen rose and went to open the door. "They'll schedule your follow-up appointments and set you up with a social worker to see about getting you financial assistance. Good day… Amber."

Her face was blank. "I can pay," she said sharply. "Good day doctor." She walked through the doorway before turning around. "What's your first name, doctor?"

"Yes, that's right." He returned flippantly and waved as she stalked away, fury practically radiating from her.

Cara looked at Von Oyen with a mixture of confusion and revulsion as he watched his patient walk the hallway. She wasn't sure just how much it was her place to call him out on the unacceptable behavior and outright lies he told Mrs. Hillman, so she instead tried to stick to the clinical side of things.

"So, she was finally starting to open up…" His head whipped around to meet her challenging gaze.

"Bullshit, she was. I want you to go see if she self pays or not."

The resident gaped and when she started to raise her voice, the attending closed the exam door and pushed her inside. "I can't believe you! You're just like the idiot residents lusting after her! There wasn't anything in her chart about inguinal lymph nodes, you pervert! What t-"

He cut his hand across the air in swath that made her jump. "Would you shut up?! Have you always been this dense or do they make you that way in cardiac?" Her face grew redder with indignation. "Now go out there and see if she pays. She's playing us either way. We can discuss later."

She bemusedly wandered to the waiting room to inconspicuously watch as Amber Hillman withdrew the 150-odd gil in cash to pay for the consultation. Cara was thrown by the entire situation by the time she made it back to the staff room. Doctor Von Oyen was angrily conversing with the entirely too-curious Nash and dismissing him to see the next patient, a request to which he sulkily complied. Vernon appeared to know better than to ask anything instead discussed a different case with another surgeon.

Von Oyen focused on the young woman with a look that clearly said, 'well…?'

"She paid."

"Hmmm…" He rubbed his chin distractedly.

Cara seated herself to his left as the room rapidly emptied to see a last patient or to head to an early lunch. "So…" she began. "Want to tell me what you meant when you said she's playing us?"

Her attending smirked. "I get to ask the questions: did _Missus _Hillman answer any meaningful question about her medical or social history?"

Cara thought. "No, not really, except for her weight loss."

He brushed that sentiment aside. "What was the reason for her x-ray?" She fumbled through the external radiology report, looking for the comments.

"Suspected broken 4th left rib. Doesn't say how. And it doesn't look broken. What's it matter?"

"Ah, ah, ah…" he tsked, shaking his index finger. "I get to ask the questions, remember? Did the image show any evidence that the ninth right rib was broken, healed at an incorrect angle, and in general had thickening of bone due to likely repeated injury that wasn't properly set? Like Mrs. Hillman?"

Cara blinked. Doctor Von Oyen half-smiled. "So you suspected the x-ray wasn't really hers. That's why you lied about the inguinal lymph nodes… But how did you suspect?"

To that question he shrugged and let it slide. "Well, let's see: she didn't answer questions. She didn't seem too broken up about having received potentially deadly news. Most people are hysterical when their GP tells them that they might have adrenal cancer.

"She appears to potentially have symptoms of different types of adrenal disease. And I know our educational system is in a shambles and we don't pay educators anything near what we ought to, but what teacher have you ever met who didn't have health insurance?" Cara couldn't think of any. "So, I don't think she is who she says she is, and I made up the lymph node story to see if I could compare the image to her, since it looked like the person in the x-ray had a significantly narrower hips. The healed rib just made it that much easier to confirm."

Sitting there thinking, Cara drummed her fingers on the desk. "I wonder who she is?"

Doctor Von Oyen, who had already moved on to reviewing the records of his next patient, content to shove off his notes on Mrs. Hillman for Cara to take and document the encounter.

"She's probably a celebrity. They dress weird. They use aliases in hospitals all the time to keep the press away. And everyone else." He shrugged.

Cara nodded. "She doesn't look too familiar, but she's certainly pretty enough to be one."

"Mm," was his only response for a time. When he close the next patient's record and stood up to leave, he continued. "Well, I don't really care who she is or if she's playing us as long as she's paying us."

**[][][]**

Once outside, Mrs. Hillman pulled a scarf around her to keep the chilly winter of Deling at bay. She flagged a cab and sent it to the address of her hotel, one of the finer ones in the city. One which could appreciate and provide discretion.

The doormen and concierge smiled warmly to her and the former tipped their hats as she walked through the lobby to the elevator. Once she entered her room, her eyes alighted almost compulsively to the corners and searched out the middle for any changes. She'd earlier had all the furniture, phone, and television removed, and she plugged all the wall jacks. The blinds where still pulled tightly shut.

Done surveying the room, she flung off the bedding on her bed and carefully inspected the underside of it. Soon, when she was completely satisfied the young woman turned her attention to her cell phone, which buzzed and chirped with missed calls and messages.

She dialed someone on her contact list. They didn't have a name listed.

"Hello?" answered a cheery feminine voice on the other end.

"Hi Selphie," said Mrs. Hillman.

"Quisty!" Selphie nearly screamed. "How goes the mission? Here, let me put you on speaker with the rest of the gang. We're all eating in my room."

Quistis Trepe, also known as Amber Hillman, supposed that the color yellow was said to make people hungry, which might explain the oddity of having so many of her friends in Selphie's dorm to eat lunch. That and everyone was probably curious about how Quistis' first ever undercover mission was going and Selphie'd been trying to contact her all day. The long reinstated instructor hadn't had training in, or experience with, being someone else in a long, long time. With her general need to control and laundry list of habits and compulsions, paranoia ensued on this mission, only 5 hours old.

She rubbed her temples and took off her glasses. Wearing contacts and glasses at the same time made her head hurt. So did overbearing surgeons and incompetent medical staff.

"No so great Selphie. It seems like everyone is looking at me."

There were a few snorts on the other end of the line.

"You mean just like they do everywhere you go? Hyne, Quistis…" Selphie commented. "You know, you could have tried to look a little bit different and maybe you wouldn't be so paranoid."

Quistis scoffed. "I did!"

Zell chimed in. "Are you kidding me, Quis? You went from golden blonde to slightly darker golden blonde, changed your eye color, and wore a ring. I bet your hair's still done up the same and you're wearing a skirt over pants and long gloves, right?"

She was flushing. "My hair's not _exactly _the same, and, and it's cold Zell! People expect layers."

"C'mon guys," Irvine drawled. "It's not like Quisty could do anything to hide the fact that she's a stone-cold fox. Ouch… Dammit Selph."

Quistis couldn't help but smile at the things that never seemed to change.

"Find anything out yet?" Rinoa asked.

"Nothing yet. Except that Dr. Von Oyen is a conceited and arrogant jerk."

"Who happens to be the best at what he does," Squall's voice quietly drifted over the ocean. "Honestly, you could be describing 60% of the world's surgeons. Any idea what he's hiding?"

Months ago a Garden informant had intercepted Galbadian intelligence that hinted at a military use for techniques discovered by Dr. Von Oyen. They were actively funding his research team to ascertain applications and duplicate methods, but the intel left no indication as to what was so special about it. Von Oyen had an incredible track record, but nothing published, or even unpublished but hacked by Selphie, gave a clue about why Galbadia was so interested that they were trying to covertly hide and cultivate his secrets.

"No idea Commander." She sighed. "I hate taking all these drugs too." Her hands were shaking as the rest of the effects were wearing off.

"You know that mixing your symptoms was the best way to get you close to his research. He practically jumps at the chance to see an unstudied adrenal disorder."

"Yeah, I know, but…" She was crashing now that her blood pressure and pulse returned to normal rates after being artificially elevated for so long. "It's only going to be a matter of time before he finds out that there's nothing wrong with me and then what?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. What Quistis said wasn't exactly true. Dr. Kadowaki had picked up a tumor-like nodule on an incidental X-ray on Quistis a few months back, on her adrenal gland. The X-ray she brought wasn't hers, as Quistis' nodule had gone into remission when followed by CT, only to return and leave again, likely an effect of fighting, but they still worried that her lost weight wasn't a faked symptom.

"Don't you worry Quisty. Once they run the CT, I'll break in and replace it with a new fake one. The hospital IT security is surprisingly simple. In the meantime, you can find his office and research lab and see what you can find. I sent the blueprints of the buildings to your phone." Quistis opened up the file and studied it while her friend continued. "His research lab is in the main hospital complex and his office is near the clinic you went to today.

"The labs close down at erratic hours. It depends on who's in and needs to do what, but the building is always open. Just avoid the patrols and cameras and you should be okay. The outpatient clinic building closes each day at 19:00, but is accessible to staff at all hours, so I can't guarantee when he'll be gone. You might have to spy for a while."

"Okay, but what about these blood and urine tests? Can Kadowaki do something to create a false positive for ACTH, catecholemines, metanephines…?"

"I'm sure she'll have something. Don't worry."

She sighed again, lifting her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't know guys… When I first met him, he froze, like he recognized me. He's not letting on, but…"

"Ah, don't be ridiculous darlin'" Irvine drawled. "You know no pictures of SeeD have ever been in the press. We'd have seen it."

Piping in again, Selphie said "Aww… Quisty. Do you want me to take your place? I've seen pictures of Dr. Von Oyen, and daaaammn… I'd be all over that! Owwww… What was that for, Irvy?"

"Yeah," she rolled her eyes. "Too bad I'm 'married.' And that he ruins his charm every time he opens his mouth."

"Heeeyy… How come Quisty didn't get a husband to go with her on this mission?"

"I'm going to hang up now, Selphie." That headache was getting worse.

"Wait, wait! Be careful, okay? We don't know who else is looking into him and what he's hiding could be dangerous."

"I know. I'll be careful, I promise." She then hung up, took out her green contacts and sat on the bed studying the layouts of the hospital buildings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Idiopathic**

**[][][]**

Snow fell in silent waves when Quistis left her hotel. A doorman shook a small drift off his hat when he bid her a good evening. Quistis had ordered room service for lunch a few hours after her morning consultation with Dr. Von Oyen and a stomach filled with the most comforting and delicious food she'd eaten in a long while went a long way toward improving her mood and outlook.

Streetlights had already turned on. The ambient light of the cloudy winter sky was so dim by midafternoon that the sensors turned on the old style lamp posts with the new ultra efficient bulbs that littered the medical campus. She walked along the freshly scraped walkways, matching the labyrinthine paths between ancient red brick buildings and state of the art glass and metal complexes with schematics Selphie had sent her. The few blueprints she'd been able to get her hands on told her that the interiors were likely to be just as daunting.

Quistis had spent some time studying what she had in her hotel room, despite the fact that she didn't know if she'd ever need to know anything about the layouts. It wasn't a combat mission, but she couldn't help treating it like one and she suspects that getting Von Oyen to divulge anything through his office consultations is highly unlikely, and a friendly, trusting relationship outside the medical facility seems almost impossible

As the thought crossed her mind, she stopped in her tracks, staring at what looked like a long black straw on the sidewalk. When did it become implausible to have a friendly relationship outside of her work?

Probably sometime after time collapsed on itself, she decided, or maybe after Rinoa's third attempt at setting her up with a blind date… She sighed. It was an unanticipated trek down a depressing road and it was most unwelcome when all she needed was concentration on the task at hand.

When that concentration didn't come of its own accord – produced by the fact that her job was her only source of joy and of joy unending, up to now – it threatened to take over her thoughts. She pushed them aside with an exhale that moved the tiny snowflakes away.

She continued walking around the curved glass exterior of the entrance to the clinic building where she'd had her consultation. Dr. Von Oyen's office was within, according to the map, on the other side adjacent to the medical library building to which it was connected. As she continued around the curve of the massive building, she continually referenced the map to get her bearings.

"Can I help you find something?"

Quistis didn't startle. It wasn't exactly an unexpected question. It had already been asked of her just short of a dozen times this morning by helpful-to-a-fault medical students, technicians, and groundskeepers and that was when she _wasn't_ carrying an open map… Seeing that it was a security officer when she looked up, she tried to put away the blueprints surreptitiously, and plastered on what she hoped was a believably affable and confused smile.

"Yes, actually."

**[][][]**

It wasn't a fruitful search though it wasn't a complete waste of time. While the security officer hadn't allowed her access to the lab – and she hadn't expected him to – his refusal revealed how visiting professionals were handled by the health system, as well as the locations of the entrances with card locks, surveillance cameras, and security checkpoints. Truthfully, getting into the lab would be a formidable task. Cameras abounded and the campus had a police force roughly equal in number to the force for the city in which it resided.

The good news was that getting into Von Oyen's office didn't seem like it would be a problem and she suspected that there was a way to get to the labs from an adjacent building with public access. Unfortunately, it was only public while likely to be full to the brim with people with functional eyesight.

Keycard access was controlled by too many checks to make up a story on the fly or even with detailed fake history. Vendors and visitors weren't granted unproctored access to any secure area. Magic, even if she could somehow find a time and place to cast inconspicuously, was suppressed over the entire medical grounds, inside and out, by one of Odine's machines. For the sake of security and optimal healing junctioning, was not allowed on premises (and the power in hers had vanished the instant she came across the street to the grounds). She couldn't cast scan to get hidden detail, or junction to improve her speed, or even _luck_…

All of which meant that if she wasn't able to find what she needed during public hours, she'd need to steal someone's identity and hope the discrepancy wasn't noticed.

She'd left the guard behind after telling him she'd contact her boss to secure the required paperwork to get a visiting instructor card. Maybe Kadowaki could come up with something to make that a possibility, but she doubted it.

Instead she wandered along the windy corridors between buildings and thanked whichever technological mavens had made SeeD parkas so damn warm.

Now at the obverse of the clinic building where she'd had her consultation after a long sojourn, she referenced her map and squinted up to the lighted windows on the second floor. On this side of the building the outer rooms were all offices and they jutted out over the ground on cement buttresses. The sides were smooth and too high to reach from the ground. There was no way to get in from the outside.

She started through a tall metal gate that led to a parking lot for what used to be an emergency triage for expectant mothers, but now seemed to only hold caterers. Ahead was a gate and security checkpoint at the driveway angling back inclined to the street and public parking above. When she heard voices and a door opening to her left, she darted behind one of the immense brick columns supporting the building overhead, not wanting another helpful encounter to derail her expedition, or have anyone ask her about the big map she struggled to fold away.

"Hold on… I want to see if Atticus will come with us."

"His name's Atticus?"

"No way will he come out for drinks with us."

"He's come before. Maybe he just doesn't like you enough to put up with you outside of work…"

The voices sounded fairly young. And familiar… She peeked around the corner and recognized the resident who came with Dr. Von Oyen this morning. Cara had remained silent so far, listening to the other two prattle on about who Quistis assumed to be Dr. Von Oyen, but she knew it was her. Quistis shrank back as the door opened again – and revealed her would-be surgeon, Atticus, apparently, S. Von Oyen.

He nearly ran into his residents as he studied the screen on his phone.

"Hey Dr. Von Oyen, want to go with us to Lindsey's?" One of the guys asked.

"The hell is Lindsey?" he asked without looking up.

"Hyne…" the resident sighed. "The bar downtown with 75 beers on tap. How long have you lived here?"

"Too long. You going Cara?" he asked. She nodded.

Quistis startled at a buzzing at her waist. Her phone. She nearly swore. While she was pretty far from the group and out of sight, they'd hear her. She didn't recognize the number, but that was a common thing for a SeeD in the field who needed to be contacted by her operators.

"Hello?" she whispered.

"Mrs. Hillman?" the voice seemed to echo and ring. From her vantage point she saw Dr. Von Oyen walk by in an easy slouch with the students in tow, holding his phone out from his ear. "I'm getting a lot of feedback. Could you get near a window or on a higher floor?"

"Shit…" The expletive left before she could rein it in. It was _**him**_.

"Excuse me? Get somewhere so you can hear me. You need to take down this information."

"I'm already outside. What do you want?" she hissed, falling easily into a harassed state of mind. She circled farther back toward the metal gate and hoped he would realize that the feedback was because she was 50 feet away.

"Your CT is scheduled for 10:30 tomorrow morning. You need to be there an hour early for your oral prep. No eating four hours prior, clear liquids only up until two hours before."

She tensed. "Coffee?"

"If it's black." The feedback had gotten worse.

"Oh, thank Hyne. I can't survive without morning coffee."

"Ah, well, you're not alone in that," he returned, amused. The response was clear that time, but didn't seem to come from where she expected. She turned around-

-And looked up into the smiling face and suspicious eyes of her target and pseudo-savior. Quistis gasped.

His arm swept out dramatically. "Fancy meeting you here. Going for a stroll down in the open-air dungeons formerly known as birth center triage parking?"

Blinking, she regained her composure and ensured that her maps were tucked away stealthily in her coat. She didn't know how to handle this situation and fought in silent fury to keep from blushing. Unsure about her success, she fervently wished for one of them to drop dead, or barring that, that he interpret her coloring to the blustery cold day.

He smirked. "It seems I've rendered you speechless. I have a feeling that will be an important skill going forward." Before she could respond with more than narrowed eyes he asked, "Have you had dinner?" He checked his watch. "We're going to a decent place and I think we can make happy hour if we hurry. It's just a few blocks away. I know after a day of putting up with me and my staff I could use a few drinks. What do you say?"

She hesitated. The residents were walking toward them, quietly wondering what was holding up their boss. After dealing with the somewhat embarrassing, no, _completely embarrassing_, ordeal which exposed more of herself (personal and professional) than she had to anyone in a long time, she was not eager to relive the torture in a social setting.

"I promise my staff and I keep personal and professional completely separate." _That _she could relate to. She may not get a better opportunity to learn more about the man and Cara's presence was strangely reassuring. "If they don't they're gone. I've been an ass and you're from out of town and alone. It's the least I can do to make you more comfortable."

"Alright." She nodded. The two young men behind Dr. Von Oyen gave each other a fist bump and Cara smiled at her.

She felt better about the whole situation. Maybe more than she had any right to be, since she was certain the doctor was only _acting _selfless. He had interest in her that, from his perspective, aligned perfectly with his professional ambitions, maybe personal too, so she had to be very careful.

But she'd be lying if she said that the extra attention was unappreciated. Things at GARDEN had gone to such a point that almost everyone was afraid to approach her about anything that could even be remotely construed as being unrelated to SeeD official business; and it was her fault. She rebuffed all attempts outside the orphanage gang to grow closer to her. She knew her backstory seemed like it read from a pulp romance about a girl whose life was characterized by losing those close to her and subsequently never let anyone close enough that their loss would hurt her. Quistis Trepe tried to be everyone's big sister, but only succeeded in that role for a few, for the rest she was an idol, revered or worshiped from afar, aloof and untouchable…

"Should I change my clothes?" she asked, desperate to change the subject, if only in her own mind.

"It's a casual grill. Only if you think you'll be uncomfortable in what you're wearing now."

"I'm set then. Let's go." Dr. Von Oyen smiled and walked beside her and the residents fell into step behind them. They passed the vehicle gate and an unmanned security station as they emerged from under the building.

He leaned close to her so the others wouldn't hear. She backed away, but he asked anyway; "Just why are you alone? Your husband couldn't make the trip?"

She breathed deeply and tried not to regret the decision to come out only two minutes into the trip.

"No."

"Mm. No friends could come with you? A condition like yours it's important to have moral support."

"That's why you're here," she replied, snippily. "I thought you said you'd keep work and personal issues separate. You don't seem to be holding up your end of the bargain."

"What bargain? The implication was that I would leave work behind, not pleasantries and conversation."

"So your 'pleasantries' are personal concern for me?"

"Well, yes. What else?"

She ignored his question and smirk. They turned along one of the many parking structures that made up much of medical campus' margins and continued on for a few blocks before turning again. A sign with the word 'Lindsey's' hung over the sidewalk ahead and the doctor held the door open for her as they all piled in.

It was a nice bar. Clean, though it was obviously frequented by university students by the way all the floors and exposed wood were polished with use. At present it was mostly empty with the students primarily away for their winter vacations so the myriad antique advertisements, posters, and other such memorabilia. They seated themselves next to a wide window which overlooked the main quadrangle of the academic grounds. Dr. Von Oyen pulled out her chair and then sat down next to her.

A waiter dropped off some menus, of which hers was the only one picked up and studied. When she looked up she noticed that everyone was looking at a big blackboard in front of her and behind the residents opposite her. There were a couple of somewhat familiar sounding names she thought she recognized from Irvine's six packs, but for the most part the names on the rotating taps board were completely alien to her.

Since she was hungry she returned to her menu. When Dr. Von Oyen nudged her with his elbow, with overmuch force, she thought, Quistis nearly fell off the side of her chair.

"Yes?" she scowled at him.

"What're you getting?"

"You nearly bowl me over to ask what I'm going to eat?"

"No, drink. And I hardly touched you."

"Whatever." She went back to the menu, trying to decide between a salad and a burger, since, well… She had lost quite a bit of weight and there was no one around that she knew to watch her slip from her perfect diet.

"If you don't pick a beer, I'll pick one for you. Nobody should leave this place without getting something from the tap."

"Don't like beer," she deadpanned.

"Ahh, you probably don't like the murky pisswater they brew in Balamb. You should try a Centran imperial wheat. I'll buy" She turned to him again. "You really shouldn't squint so much, you're depriving the rest of us a view of those beautiful green eyes."

The others were giving their orders to the waiter. "You're incorrigible. I don't think I've ever met anyone who switches between insults and flattery so much and so quickly as you do."

He threw back his head in a roaring laugh that felt so familiar to her, but she couldn't place it.

"Oh, Mrs. Hillman," he wagged his finger at her, smiling "I stick to the truth. It's your perception of the words that vacillates."

"Truth, right. Give me a Central imperial, please, and your house burger," she said to the waiter.

Von Oyen smiled at her again and against her best defenses and instinct to attack him, it was disarming, in a rogue way. "Good choices. I'll have what she's having," he said and handed the waiter all the menus.

"I can pay for my own drink," Quistis grumbled.

"I'm sure you can, but if you had my money you'd burn yours. Besides, there ought to be some perks for providing the foundation of knowledge and wisdom for the next generation."

Quistis rolled her eyes. "If being regaled by what passes for gnomist thought from a Deling City surgeon is a perk of my profession, I just might consider changing careers."

"Oh, Amber," he put his hand over his heart "You wound me." He looked across the table at the young doctors who all had their necks craned to study the screens on their phones, probably texting each other. "On second thought, maybe you shouldn't be rewarded for churning out sights like this."

She smiled. "You're acting a bit too familiar _Atticus_. If they're incompetent it's your fault, wouldn't you say? They're under your tutelage."

"They just came to me and I have to fix them." He shrugged. "Not my fault that they arrive this way. Can't undo all that damage in few weeks or even months."

When the beers arrived it was enough to get those on the other side of the table to look up even though talking about them wasn't able to do the same. Everyone grabbed their glasses, but Von Oyen stopped Quistis from drinking with hand on her wrist and the others with a stare.

"A toast," he said "To our health and to the future." He let go her arm after a moment and they all clinked their glasses together and took a long draught.

"What do you think?" he motioned to the glass.

She smacked her lips. "Not bad," she conceded. Actually, it was really quite good. Quistis took another pull before asking "So, was Cicero taken, or did your mother just assume you'd be on the sidelines of history's greats?"

The doctor's face transformed. Darkened, but only for the smallest of moments, before the anger and surprise left and was replaced with aloof amusement. "Maybe my mother wanted me to be a friend and a contributor to society and the arts rather than a man most known for being a person to spew forth legalese and other verbose puerile political demagoguery."

Quistis raised her eyebrow. "Didn't expect you to be so defensive of your namesake. Seems like you should be a little more tolerant of people with incurable disease starving themselves."

"Ha! You're my patient now, so you're hardly incurable."

"I hope your skill with a blade matches your bravado with words."

He took another drink with her. Their glasses were already almost empty and her head cleared and swam the slightest bit with a buzz that made things lighter.

"I would think that you already know that it does, given that you've come to me and not Tichnour or Bowe in Balamb." She thought that his voice sounded almost dangerous.

"Yes, well, desperate times call for desperate measures and all that."

"Indeed." He laughed again. "I'm glad I met you, Amber. It's good to talk to another adult." There was some general dissention from the other side of the table, against whom the comment was pointed, at least in part.

"Likewise. Or so I hope. You can call me Mrs. or Instructor Hillman." The words came out naturally and she didn't think it dangerous to use them, but somewhere in her mind she thought to all the people who only ever called her 'Instructor Trepe.' Even if there were never any pictures of her and she hated being called Amber.

The way his response came sounded natural to her ears and that was as unnerving as his smirk.

"Very well, Instructor."


End file.
